


(evil) ascian adventures as a tiny crab minion, beholden to the WoL

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, WoL unknowingly adopts crab ascian minion, based off cat gifs and memes, enemies weirdly proprietary of each other, shennigans and humor, what plot there is no plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 14:27:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30124194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: What if ascian crab ACTUALLY crab + crab minion + bonded fiercely with a WoL early ingame + ??? = PROFIT.
Relationships: Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. see if wol fuck you now, emet-smelt

**Author's Note:**

> There is no clear plot to any of this. It's more a series of shorts loosely connected around a central idea. No chronological order. 
> 
> Bookclub link where I ramble about crab minion: https://discord.gg/ME4eAEt

Imagine for a moment. Emet-Selch, sorcerer of eld, emperor supreme, architect of empires, dismantler of nations. Immortal. 

Cockblocked by a godsdamned crustacean. His woes compounded not only on a crab - a wretched bottom dwelling urchin - but one bearing a recognizable soul. 

Cockblocked by a crab and a fellow coworker. Pashtarot, naturally. Constellation cancer - cancer, _crab_. 

The inherent pun literally eye rollingly nauseating, but here Emet sits, on the edge of the Warrior of Light's bed, nursing an uncomfortable stiffy and there S'idos stands - _not_ attending his liege, talking to the damn crab.

"Far be my shaking up such domestic bliss," he drawls, irritation mounting, "but dear hero, you realize your pet is also an ascian?"

S'idos shrugs. "In for fucking one of you…Besides, in the scheme of things, I knew crab ascian first."

The utter gall, the _nerve_! Complete lack of respect due one of Emet-Selch's station and long lived life. 

He glumly watches the Warrior deliberately (deliberately!) pamper the crab. Kiss the top of his shell. Lay him shell down on a clearly custom made pillow of the crab's markings, tucking a godforsaken blanket around him. 

Watches his coworker manipulate S'idos with disgustingly adorable tiny stretches, earning him scritches across tender underbits and the Warrior's delighted coos.

No meeting of hero and ascian, blending of light and darkness, blah, blah, _blah_ occurs that night. Because Emet-Selch refuses to fuck the Warrior of Light three feet away from a judgemental coworker. Literally, he could roll over in bed and shove Pashtarot off the nightstand if he so wished.

Why he refuses to drop his shapeshift is an annoying, unknowable quality. As equally frustrating the understanding, not that this shard of the knight-star probably remembers, forcing another's return to true form such gauche faux pas in Amaurotine culture.

And whose only communication to graciously tepid physic shooing came in the form of a smug, one line quip.

_Die mad about it, old man._

Emet-Selch allows himself a moment of petty passive-aggression and teleports crab, bed and all, into a nearby lake.

For two weeks hence, no matter where he travels, how far away from any miniscule body of water or off the First entirely, Emet-Selch finds trout in his smalls every single, godsdamn morning.

On the one hand, it could be worse - crabs have pinchy, sharp claws, and he shudders of them near his delicate bits - but on the other, Elidibus delicately wrinkles his nose now every time they meet. Like the smell lingers.


	2. noodle crimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crab minion has minor teleporting abilities. Accuracy leaves a bit to be desired.

Tataru busies herself about the Rising Stones' small kitchen, humming to herself. Checks on the stove top, shifting about the glowing fire shards underneath one large, metal pot with a metal poker. The other pot on the second burner she'd left to sit out to cool. Now she wraps pot holders around it and brings it to the sink to drain.

Simple fare for the Scions tonight. But after all their trials on the First, still getting used to actual, physical bodies again simple seemed better. Tataru returns the pot to the empty burner, turning to her table setup.

"Fresh baked bread is a treat," she sings, dusting out a generous amount of flour across the table.

Out comes the dough waiting in a nearby bowl, plopped in the middle of the flour.

"Knead the dough and let it rise."

Tataru takes her hands, covered in flour as well, to the dough and does just that, pushing out its squishy, sticky mass into a vaguely bread shape. Flips it over and does the same to the other side.

She has one hand on a pan, in the middle of transferring the dough for baking. Still humming merrily to herself, so the soft splash goes unnoticed at first. 

Tataru turns from the table with the bread. Takes two paces before the first chirps start. She freezes in place, foot raised in the air in the middle of another step.

Low, faint chattering noises more in common with a frog's croak coming from the direction of her stove. The pot on the left shifts. Minutely. 

Tataru's sure of it, narrowing her eyes, putting her bread back on the table. Takes up a kitchen knife almost half the length of her forearm, approaching warily.

By the Twelve if her kitchen is haunted now -

She peers over the lid of the pot, knife raised at the ready. Blinks. 

"Now how did _you_ get in there?"

Tataru exchanges the knife for a wide mouth ladle, prodding the noodle covered crab in the middle of the night's dinner. It snaps the edge of her metal implement, scuttling an inch to the side. As if it had any room to escape her. But the Warrior of Light's favorite pet was proving a willful sort.

Tataru prods again.

"Come on you. Up!"

She ends up trapping the crab against the wall of the pot before it deigns to daintly climb into her ladle and be scooped out of the pot. Along with a healthy chunk of noodles wrapped around its shell.

And there they are - lalafell and crustacean, staring each other down in the middle of the Rising Stones. Silly really, but Tataru can't shake the thought. Raising the ladle up at eye level that those beady black eyes express certain intelligence.

Vibrate tiny malice.

The thought that the crab is examining her. Peering deep into her very soul and searching for weakness. Any little flaw or manner of vice. 

And Tataru reminds herself it is indeed, truly a _crab_ , that maybe Thancred's paranoia is getting to her too.

A noodle slides down over the crab's head, caught deftly in one pinching claw. Slowly but surely dragged in toward delicate mouth parts. 

Tataru huffs, pointing a finger at the crab.

"That was meant to be for dinner, you fiend. Though I suppose," she concedes, transferring the crab to a small plate, "there's room for you too. But I'll warn you, Thancred won't be best pleased."

Again, she's being silly, Tataru knows it. But the damn thing seems to radiate smug satisfaction, still nibbling on its noodle.


	3. shoebills and crabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A what if Emet-Selch was ALSO minion? Shoebill, naturally. 5.0 spoilers, allusions to character death (the obvious, briefly touched on).

From his seat on the floor, resting against the backboard of his bed, S'idos considers the spread of objects before him. An arrow taken from his quiver. Its fletching still the odd, silken ash soot grey he plucked off a greatwood rail last time he replenished his supply. His backup pistol, polished gleaming. A handful of bullets. And one jagged, broken off shard of deep purple crystal.

Spread out in a small semi-circle between him and the small crab waiting patiently within arms reach. Tiny thing, lobster red under irregular white shell, purple blotches dotting its legs. Followed the Warrior of the Light home after a vicious confrontation with a fellow crustacean ten times its size. 

As they say, the rest mere history. 

S'idos grins at it, leaning forward and patting its head.

"Here we go, eh?"

He picks the arrow up first, passing it back and forth through his fingers with ease. Taps the metal edge lightly against the floor.

The crab opens and shuts a claw, as quick.

Someone from the windowsill gives a disapproving click. S'idos rolls his eyes, turning his head toward the shoebill framed in mid-afternoon sun through the open window. Fruitless endeavor, anthropomorphizing cloudkin - or whatever true classification. 

But he dares anyone look at its drilling stare, desire to exert itself no more than absolutely necessary, and refusal to come when called as anything other than spoken traits gifted a bird.

"If someone weren't so haughty and above us simple peasants," S'idos tells it, reaching for his pistol, "you could play too, buddy."

The shoebill just stares. And perhaps it's just the breeze. Or perhaps it really does ruffle feathers indignantly, going back to scanning the horizon.

Another tap. Another snap. The bullets S'idos juggles lightly in the palm of his hand. Scatters them on the ground from a short height, watching the crab perform its series of snips in furious, usual precision.

He chuckles, rubbing a finger under its soft underbelly. Earns a chirp.

The final object S'idos pauses over. Recovered from a larger chunk after a particularly harrowing battle, in more than one way. Long gone now. Put to rest.

He lets the sunlight reflect off the brilliant, jagged prism, aware of eyes on him. 

"You liked playing games, didn't you?"

And this too, S'idos taps against ground, mood gone melancholic. Head turned towards the window, he hears a delicate clink about the same time registering the shoebill's eyes screwed up in fury.

Feathers fluffing, puffed out. Knobby knees bent at an odd angle ready for launch. Most ridiculous thing he's seen in moons, laughter caught in his throat. Funny, if the bird wasn't suddenly _dive bombing his head!_

He scrambles for the de-summoning snap - transporting magic to send the pissed off shoebill back to his retainers (yeah, he'll owe them more than ventures for this) - vaguely aware its attention isn't even truly on him, before it's whisked off and away.

Sighs in relief, tugging on the crystal. Tugging...on the...crystal…

S'idos frowns, looking down. 

"Oh, Oschon's _balls_ , you two" at least the crab releases the crystal when he taps its claw meaningfully, though it continues to stare down the windowsill, "why do you despise each other?"

The crab offers no words to defend itself, not that S'idos expected any. He resolves to give it the silent treatment. At least for a while. Very maturely.

Picks up his arrow again, twirling it mindlessly. 

Ignores the pressure climbing his leg. Settling into his lap. Even the first, insistent shoves against his free hand, resting on his thigh.

"You're just as at fault," he accuses the crab, "don't chirp, chirp me. Twelve. Think I'm raising a handful of rebellious kits here."

He snorts, finally giving into dual urges, arrow clattering to the ground. Snaps shoebill back into the room, letting it settle on the bed above and next to his head. Which takes time, pride and all, that S'idos uses to slowly stroke the top of the crab's shell.

"Think about it," he says, leaning up to lend the shoebill scritches too, "children. Me. Old tribe be over the moon to hear. Smug bastards. Ever tell you two of them?"

Shoebill doesn't make sound, leaning into his fingers despite itself. Crab in his lap completes three short circuits before settling back down.

S'idos smiles. Story time. Surefire way to ensure cooperation. Every time.


End file.
